Silences to your Shores

I.

Ink pen and exact paper structures
And I pen you in them
Like ellipses of purple foment
Where I seek you in my train of thoughts
You keep coming, never settling as lees

And when I murmur redundant poems
Patiently enough, you wrestle with my words
The flavors of your emotions transcends
My succulent sins of time

I have commenced life in you - long
Cupping a face that never answers
What you decipher?
I wait and listen your unuttered metaphors

My time always tappers
And the mundane follows
And I leave you incomplete
Mothering my limits in agony
Surreptitiously, I have a piece of you in me

II.

Mostly touched by your silences
I derive my tampering from the half-spoken words
Those eyes that can hide
My thousand screams in surrender

Your frolic takes period ‘way from me
Keeping my half pauses of tranquility alive
Smoothened by your melted vanilla
I usher your tenderness in my creation

How often do you curb urge?

At that moment I urged all my words to swim across a russet pantheon cave. The wave’s commotion kept me awake in the forest of this summer. Wild as the summer can be, a sweeping dent of emotion, a blistering fire of longing and, then, nothing! It seems that life has been here with me long. The length has prolonged every moment; however, still I stand restricting! Like the oil in the lamp, I linger for fire. The flame breathes deep and still I limit. This limit of limitlessness has delivered an oblivious self fascinated with the ideal of “curbing.”

The sun questioned with his wondering eyes, and more baffled his eyes were to find me naïve. It is that my soul has selected her society of limiting your limitlessness. It is this curbing, that resisting and me innumerable no man’s land that holds to you! Do you even realize this? Sometimes turning away a face doesn’t mean distance. It means a thousand closures that need not be revealed.

Closures are novel accesses to freedom to an unexplored pasture where you reap a narration. I recollect a girl mentioning about closures and its significance. However, do all closures give freedom? Closures take away that “amness” in you. When I sit with cupping hands I believe that it is so difficult to find “you” in someone, and the day we find it – we are free. We just don’t restrict ourselves in living in one body, one soul … we are living in a purely distinct soul.

How effortless it becomes to see that reflection of yours! But this freedom disappears in thin air when we lose our individuality. It is more like a venn diagram, where you find one line of existence is meshed up with another, and so forth it continues. However, if you have a closer look you will find innate individualistic colors too.

Nothing moves, nothing lost and the whole germinates.

Never Thoughts

There has always been certain never thoughts in life. Somewhere they reside in great oblivian. They over sleep, make living more solitary and, strangely enough, never thoughts. You just dont mull over. You have no clue that they are growing with you; nourshing your subtle, meticulous silences; observing your detailed movements; dying occassionally when you are hell bent on wearing a new narration.

It is a casual numbness that goes unnoticed every moment. It crawls, prowls, and ceases your thoughts; yet they are so never thoughts. And when they commence to voice their existence, you are just quiet, in deed, very quiet. Often I brush a question to these never thoughts and et al. I will let the readers ponder what might be the most probable query. And a reader must be wondering whether I get my answer at all? Yes, my answers are throbbing with life; they are so much into existence; however, they fail to satiate me.

So these never thoughts fall short of making it to my akme of satiation. Willingly enough, I master my thoughts. I reign my nation of never thoughts. I decide, I imbibe. Yet I remain so baffled when these never thoughts come to know "me," which is still a riddle to my existence or  to my so called "nonexistence."

Comfortable Silences

Then the contours of your words

Succulent and fine

Lay intertwined

Soft and supple

They breathe

Defining moments

Nourishing a novel creed

You say the contours change 

But I wish to feed every range

As my evenings subside

Into more defined measure

As my words take a definite ride

To find life in your treasure

Abstract!

Often there is a question that bubbles, and when I am about to realize the nuance — the question no more lives. It just becomes a passe. It transforms itself to an abstract. Its more like nihilism that recourses itself to form a crippled mundane. Or is it that the routine is handcuffed ? I have sorted out questions on my plate, I sit to decide and, then steadily, all the questions vanishes! I frantically look for them, but no where I find them? They have transformed to something else. And I fail each time I look for the transformation. 

It all leaves me so empty. And yet I hold on to the question — How spacious space can be within you? Is this space also diurnal? This space might even be an epitome of patience. Can a being be reasonably patient? Does it  mean that the energy of this space, as I call it, gets transformed to patience? Patience makes things calm. Or is this calmness leading me to something? I think there is a brush of stubbornness that patience has. You just cannot get rid of it. There might even be a phase of nonexistence. Isnt it ? As if you are going through a spasm. And you fail to express. Something that is meant to be just mine. 

It lives on to be an abstract. Is this spasm a hypothesis? Is it your imagination? However, if this abstract is some kind of a hypothesis then laws and logic will help deduce the unknown. But the unknown too gets transformed to a known or to a novel unknown. The colors keep on changing. 

It becomes both crowded and space at the same time. It is an everlasting duel. However, in this cosmic duel the essence and intricate details are lost. It leads to a chasm. A wholeness where you find nothing. It seems to me more like the transformation of a child from the mother's womb. But I question here my own thoughts — Is the child so the question or the abstract? 

Or the child is just a creation of thousand silences opening their mouth. You keep on feeding one and the other yawns open to be fed. And this process is so incomplete. It haunts your subconsciousness too. It follows you without faltering. Life has been silenced so much that it has become a tumultuous task to put words expressing them. 

I fail here!

Find me!

I have to learn yet again to be subtle. To conceal, to take my eyes away because I don’t want to be revealed. The gravest insecurity I have is to be discovered. I believe no one can be explored completely. But right at this moment, I need a cloud, some rains, a green meadow, a nightfall, a mist, a thundershower, some winter, some half-scribbled words to hide me. I want to just run away to my secret garden.

I can measure every ounce of this restlessness in me. I desire it to stay, to overpower all my words, my thoughts, my ideals, especially my silences. The reflection has ceased to show me. I can't see me, I have removed the steam, where am I? Where did I go? Find me.

The more I seek it, the more am lost and the more I grow restless. However, I don’t like it to be finished before I am. I longed for a closure, a closure that will brush an identity. The identity will acknowledge the warmth of my sun, my turns and returns, my concealment and revelation, my findings and my restlessness! Still I would ask find me!

To be born!

How good does it feel to be reborn? Birth involves a lot of pain. It isn’t trifle, it isn’t diurnal. To labor birth is something tremendous. It makes you not one or two, it makes you innumerable. Birth isn’t just for a moment or a day or a sunrise. It is beyond sunset and much before sunrise.

It is a space between thoughts, interludes of emotions, a breathless split. Born to live a plethora of silences, of sighs, of restlessness, of presumptions, and of course of longings! Isn't it? And even to meet faces. Faces that provokes thoughts. Thoughts that initiates your prayers. Prayers that turn the pages of your day. Day that bears the fruit of your life. And life that is born over and over again.

It is amazing to realize what a moment can give that might no longer be possible for a lifetime to reap. A word, a heartbeat, a night can do wonders! They really do! Each one of us is in inertia for that one thing for that one touché — before sunrise, before sunset.

There needn’t be a thousand flowers, there needn’t be that perfect snow, the early morning dew drops on grass blades; but it is that perfect gesture even in a forest of commotion. It might be the briefest of flash, but it will brush you blue, red, white, violet! And then you will be born, may be — before sunrise, before sunset.